


Twilight

by scy



Category: Supernatural/BTVS
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scy/pseuds/scy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean don't agree on a lot of things, this time, it leads to more than a little problem and a third party gets involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twilight

**Author's Note:**

> Lattara implied that she was owed fic. Then I had a particularly inspiring conversation with Pandarus, so thanks goes to the two of them for their input and suggestions.

Alone.

That was his first moment of awareness, the second where he realized there had been anything before blankness. The nightmare responsible for waking him still clung to his mind, the images of a form fast becoming indistinct in his memory as he awoke.

Eyes open, he took in the room he was resting in. The walls were some inoffensive hue that sought to comfort anyone looking at it. The effect was exactly the opposite, he felt smothered and confined by the unfamiliar place and the instinctive knowledge that nothing belonged to him and didn't know where he was.

Something was dangerously out of order. Concentrating, he held all of his body to utter stillness, then tried to move. Tubes jerked to and fro in their burrows of skin and he flopped back, quivering, a fear thoroughly blanketing his mind.

Various aches and a limpness of body were quick to make their existence felt, but that, he decided, didn't explain why he couldn't figure out where he was.

Panic rose up in his throat like sand, and he felt the impulse to give in, let it cover him, take whatever was coming and react only as his situation allowed him to. A few moments were all the time he gave to that course of action, and defiant of the present discomfort and what was to come, he forced himself to focus and gather information.

The smell was flat and sterile; a hospital, medical facility, an inner snarl resounded between his ears, he knew a lot about such places and had a lot of experience in them. How he had ended up in one wasn't clear, he could tell that he had been hurt, different parts of his body protested his jerky movements, but that was all he remembered. An unsure twitch of hand located a call button and Sam pressed it.

*  
At first Sam thought that Dean would come around; that the loss of their father would propel him onto the same course, and that there would be an understanding between them. He didn't anticipate the objections Dean raised, arguments that Sam might have used himself years ago when he thought John Winchester's quest had consumed him and that escaping it was the only way to find peace or a life of their own. Now he was convinced that no such state could be achieve while evil still walked the earth, taunting their pain with each victim it claimed, not succumbing to hunger or exhaustion because it was fed and rejuvenated by the souls it claimed and lives it took.

But Dean, lying in that hospital bed, battled against every single one of Sam's plans for hunting the demon down. Their fights got so bad that Sam would take off someplace quiet to do research because he didn't want to hear any argument about it.

Then Dean stopped trying to persuade him not to go on. He went to physical therapy and acceded to every medical recommendation with an air of immeasurable calm. That was when Sam thought they might have reached a truce. Dean would get back to the crusade Dad had started all those years ago. After all, he had a stake in it, just like Sam, and he'd never, in Sam's memory, been able to walk away from a fight.

Then Sam found a ritual, a banishing that worked on demons, specifically some of the most powerful. It had been used before, by people who had no other choice, and every book he checked said that the spell would send them directly to Hell without hope of a return trip, ever. The incantation was incomplete; priests had copied it through the centuries and the transfer lacked several lines, but enough of it remained intact for it to look extremely promising.

Sam hurried to the physical therapy department where Dean was doing his afternoon exercise; the pages of notes he'd taken clutched in his hands, heart pounding excitedly. If anything could do it, this would be the thing to bring Dean to his senses and back to Sam's side again, this would compel him to do what he was good at, what he was meant for.

The PT room was on the next to bottom floor and overlooked an underground parking garage on one side, and the hospital pool on the other. As Sam pushed the door open, he hard the sound of splashing and headed to his right.

Dean was floating on his back, the physical therapist moving sleekly through the water alongside, murmuring softly. She glanced up when Sam halted at the pool's edge and came to a stop in the water.

"Hey, Dean," Sam called out, knowing that he wasn't hiding his excitement very well.

"Your brother's here, Dean," the therapist prompted, and as if this was news to him, Dean slowly turned over and paddled to where Sam's sneakers were sticking off the edge.

"Sorry to interrupt your session," Sam apologized, and Dean shrugged.

"You've been hitting the books again."

"Yeah, how'd you guess?"

"Well, for one thing, that's all you ever do lately, and the other, you look like you fell asleep on an ink pad." Dean motioned to Sam's face, and as he turned his hands over he saw that they were covered in splotches of ink.

"Pen must be leaking. Anyway, I found something, Dean and it's going to help us with our jobs." He smiled at the third party, and she took the hint, swimming easily to the other side of the pool.

"You did?"

"Yeah, and it's amazing that nobody else ever found it, the ritual's been around for a long time and it's supposed to be an absolute certainty that it'll send that bastard back to where it came from."

"Him, Sam."

"What?"

"Him. And he had two kids."

"You did what you had to." Sam hissed. They'd been over this subject repeatedly and the facts were still as solid in his mind as the first time it came up.

"I get that, Sam, I may not like it, but I know. What I'm saying is that this demon is a real family man and he's not going to let up until he gets his pound of flesh for what I did."

"Which is why we have to go after him first."

"Because that worked so well before."

"It was a trap, Dean, we couldn't help that, this time we'll be prepared, and we'll get him."

"With what? You've got the magic demon decoder ring and have figured out his weakness?"

"Not quite, but I've got a pretty good idea of how to stop him."

"So did a lot of other people, I bet. You think we're the only ones who had a run-in with this thing?"

"Dad thought we could handle it, and he just had the Colt, this time I've got this spell, and-"

"And what'll it be next time? This demon's smart, Sam. It doesn't have to come after us because it knows that the Winchesters are chasing after it and it can sit back and wait and plan its next move."

"So what're you saying we should do? Wait for another few years and then see if we get lucky and pick up its trail again?"

Dean let out a harsh bark of laughter. "Lucky? Dad's dead, Sam. He's dead because he thought that he could handle that thing, and he couldn't back off, no matter what it cost."

"It would've worked if I'd done what he ordered me to," Sam said fiercely.

"You couldn't have done that, you kill your own family, what does that make you?"

"It would've killed the demon."

"We don't know that for sure, Sam, and even if it had, you'd have killed Dad to beat it."

"If that's what it took, Dad was willing to take that step."

"Yeah, and look where it's left us, he's dead."

"We're not, but unless we get ready, we're not going to have a way to defend ourselves when this monster comes looking for us."

Dean stared up at him, silent for a few moments, hair flattened and slicked out of his face by the water, looking young enough that Sam felt like he should say something comforting, but he didn't know what.

"I can't do this again, Sammy."

"Hunt down the thing that destroyed your family?"

"It's still destroying my family, Sam, it's just taken two decades to do it." As he spoke, Dean's face closed off, and then he pushed away from the wall and moved back to the center of the pool.

Sam watched Dean swim away, strokes jerky as muscles protested full extension and stared at the back of his brother's head, willing him to turn around, not to make this like the last time they'd walked away from each other.

"I'm heading over to Bobby's for a couple days, but I'll be back to check up on you, alright?"

Dean might have waved at him, or he could have been stretching, but Sam waved back and then turned around and left.

*  
Bobby knew that there was unease between the Winchester brothers, but he was wise enough not to push when Sam claimed that it would 'blow over soon.' Whatever Sam had to tell himself in order to get by was acceptable, up to a point. In his time, Bobby had seen vengeance drive men until they had tunnel vision and couldn't be stirred out of their chair for anything but what kept them up at night.

"Your father was a good man," he said to Sam one afternoon as the boy was flipping through a treatise on demonology. "A good man," he went on in the same casual, reasonable tone, "but a real blind son of a bitch." That brought Sam's head up and he stared at Bobby, blankly, defensiveness already rising in his mouth. "Don't get me started, Sam, you know that I've had my issues with your Daddy, always thought it wasn't right the way you boys were raised, but I suppose he did the best he could."

"What're you saying, Bobby?" Sam was listening for the moment, but his fingers twitched impatiently on the pages yet to be read.

"I'm saying, that it looks as though you've got more in common with him than either of you guessed."

"Thanks." Sam turned deliberately back to his book, but his head came back up as Bobby went on.

"That wasn't a compliment, boy. John Winchester was one of the most stubborn and obsessive men I ever met, and that's saying something in this business. He was never happy with what he knew, always had to turn over every rock and see what was hiding there and then he poked it with his shotgun."

"My dad was good at what he did."

"He got good by slogging his way through one mess after another, and he dragged the two of you along with him."

Sam looked as if he was gritting his teeth to keep from talking back.

"Which is exactly what you're doing now to Dean."

"Dean?"

"Your brother, who's having to watch you go down the same road as your Daddy."

"This isn't the same, and Dean's alright, he understands what I'm doing."

Bobby shook his head. It was like dealing with John twenty years ago when he began to think he had the tools for hunting, and couldn't see that he was leaving his boys no choice for their future. "Whether he understands or not, that's not the point. How long do you think he's going to be able to stand this back and forth routine between a regular life and this mission? Are you taking off as soon as you get a hold of this demon, or are you gonna keep on hunting?"

"This isn't my life, Bobby, I just want to finish this for my parents and Jess."

"And I get that, son, I'm not saying that you should just think on what this is doing to your brother."

Sam looked Bobby straight in the eye but didn't deny that Dean was having trouble with Sam's intensity.

"Keep it in mind while you're double-checking sources and whatnot," Bobby advised turning and heading back outside to poke at the wreckage of the Impala.

*  
Sam only let up on researching when the letters went fuzzy in front of his eyes and then he gathered up his notes and stumbled off to the spare bedroom where he was staying and fell asleep. He'd found that if he worked until he was exhausted, then there was less chance of dreaming.

He made sure he got a few hours of sleep each night after showing up to visit Dean and realizing that the reason his brother wasn't looking him in the face was that he had giant bruises below his eyes. Dean never asked if he was sleeping, but Sam made sure that as soon as he came by for a visit, he took a seat and stayed in it. Even if Sam couldn't figure out what Dean was trying to do by keeping out of the fight, he could do something to ease his brother's mind a little bit.

Dean was certainly doing more than his part of not sharing what he thought would upset Sam, and he'd taken his habit of deflecting concern to a new level. Since he'd been able to get around on his own, Sam hadn't had so much as a peek at any of Dean's bandages, and whenever he asked, Dean played it down. As far as his little brother was concerned, Dean was healing nicely and had everything under control. Sam hadn't let that stop him from interrogating the doctor and other staff, but he waited until Dean was asleep or at a therapy appointment to at least give him the illusion of privacy. Dean probably knew what he was doing, but neither of them had brought it up, and so the fragile peace held.

The next morning, just as soon as he was awake and had eaten something, Sam hauled the grimoires and assorted sources of demonic lore out of Bobby's improvised library and set them up on the kitchen table. He was trying to nail down the difference between a lower level demon and one of the more serious kinds when he heard a car pull up out front. Looking out the window, he saw a taxi unloading a single passenger who moved unsteadily across the yard toward the house. If he hadn't seen Dean using the hospital issue cane, he would've thought that Bobby had a visitor.

Getting up, Sam hurried to let Dean inside. Watching his brother carefully scale the stairs made his throat close up. Dean wasn't supposed to be hurt or working his way toward recovery, he was used to this life, but he'd never caught the brunt of it except when he was truing to save Sam's hide.

Sam remembered Dean shoving him out of the way of a werewolf and yanking him up by his collar away from the claws of a mermaid. Dean put himself in harms way for Sam's sake, and he'd never fully realized at what cost. Now, whatever plan Sam came up with, Dean couldn't take the lead, and that meant it was time for Sam to look after him for a while. He would have liked to be sure that Dean was eager to get started on the job, but it might be better for him to take a break. Maybe if he had some time to get his stuff together Dean would be willing to pitch in. Meanwhile, he needed to get his stubborn brother a hand up the last couple of steps.

"Come on, let me help you," he said, and ignored Dean's attempts at waving him off. "I mean, if you'd rather trip and fall, go ahead, bust your face open, I'll just tell Bobby you walked out against doctor's orders and we need to keep you on bed rest for the next two weeks."

Dean narrowed his eyes at him but since Sam was standing at the top of the stairs, he used his position to maximize his ability to loom menacingly and was doing it unrelentingly. "Fine." Dean stuck his free hand out and let Sam grab hold.

As Sam put his arm around Dean's torso, he wasn't able to completely avoid all the rows of stitches and Dean sucked air in sharply when Sam gripped too tightly.

"Sorry."

"Don't sweat it," Dean said, trying to sound causal, but not pulling it off, what with the way his breath caught as they took another step.

Sam got the hint and didn't ask how Dean was doing, but he directed him into a bedroom on the main floor. Dean's breathing was much too labored for his liking, and there was no telling how long he was going to be able to stay on his feet.

Dean didn't object to finding a seat as quickly as possible, which didn't do anything for Sam's nerves, and he carefully lowed his brother onto the bed watching for and catching the wince that Dean didn't want him to notice.

Predictably, Dean only tolerated Sam's fussing for a couple moments, and then he pushed at his shoulder irritably. "Leave off, if I want to crash, I'm on a flat surface, not much chance of me cracking my skull on a pillow."

"Not that you wouldn't make the effort," Sam retorted, still not sure that he should leave Dean by himself.

Dean glanced at Sam, taking in is rumpled appearance and said offhandedly, "You've been keeping busy?"

"Yeah, sure. Taking it easy, doing research mostly."

"That's good." Dean nodded as some point was made. "Well, if you've got something to do, I'm gonna take a nap." Dean eased himself back on the pillows carefully and closed his eyes as if he was shutting a door. Sam could have protested, told him that he needed Dean's help, or that he actually was in need of a break, but he didn't. Keeping his mouth shut had been the only way to avoid an argument of late, and he wasn't eager to change that.

The next day, Dean limped into the kitchen; he was quiet, but verbal with Bobby when his health was questioned. Sam got an absent nod, and the silence wasn't easy, but at least it didn't strain with potential conflict.

When Sam moved to clear Dean's plate, he got a raised eyebrow. "Do we need to get you sized for an apron and house slippers, Sam?"

Sam responded by throwing a wet sponge squarely at the back of Dean's head.

Bobby stepped in to see what the shouting was about and shook his head. "Y'know, it's been a good while since the floor has been mopped in here, and anyone with the time to play around could make themselves useful."

*  
Sam could tell that Dean was uneasy about him going on any kind of job by himself. No matter how many times Sam explained to him that this was only an information gathering trip and that he wasn't out looking to stir up trouble, Dean made way too little noise about what he thought of Sam's plans. Since they were kids, Dean had always been able to bluster and shove his way into situations that most people could back away from. When he went quiet and agreeable, then Sam was worried.

Noise and attitude were two of the methods Dean used to cope, and if both of those were off the table, then there was indeed something going on beneath the surface. There wasn't any use in badgering him about what was bothering him; he held stuff back so thoroughly that he made stone seem chatty by comparison.

Of course, Sam still made at least a half dozen attempts to get Dean to talk. Sometimes it worked if his brother got tired of being harassed or if he thought that Sam needed to know something for a job, like that time with the striga, but even then it had to be carved out of him. Dean valued his privacy and he didn't give out any of his personal truths lightly.

It wasn't so bad, so long as Dean let Sam see how much he was keeping back. He put a good face on 'letting Sam do his thing,' and even sat outside on the porch in the evenings, which was as close to the frantic scratch of Sam's pen as he was willing to get. Sam had an irresistible urge to learn everything he could about the demon, whereas Dean was repelled by it. They moved in and out of each other's space, Dean unable to bring himself too close, and Sam increasingly immersed in his studies.

He kept on making connections; one snippet of forgotten lore connecting with a legend from another country and all of it painstakingly reassembled in front of him. At present, he didn't yet know everything he needed to, but he felt close enough to have difficulty stopping or even slowing down.

As he found his way toward a solution, it was hard not to draw Dean into the search, but he knew better than to bring up Dad's orders and final words of advice to them as he lay in the hospital. Some things a man shouldn't ask his sons to do, not if he wasn't prepared to leave them damaged. Though Sam hadn't carried through, it was nearly as bad as if he had, and the ragged edges Dad had left in each of them scraped each other raw when they tried too hard. Sam kept his head down and looked for the answers that would go a long way to fixing this.

The Impala wasn't repaired by the time Sam had all of his papers in order ad was ready to see a guy about a scroll. He wasn't sure how long it'd take before the car was road-worthy again, what with Dean being methodical and unhurried in his repair work. At least he was working on it; seeing him outside doing something was a great relief to Sam, and he took the fact that Dean was interested in making the car whole again to be a good sign.

Wandering outside, ink-splotched hands in his back pockets, he was surprised when Dean got to his feet slowly, still dealing with his injuries and motioned to the car. "You're gonna take it."

"What?"

"Nothing happened to your ears, Sam. When you head off to interview sources or go stargazing, you're using the car."

"Your car."

Dean looked at Sam the way he did whenever he thought Sam was deliberately standing back and watching the point skate by. "Right."

"I can't take your car."

"I'm lending it to you, how else are you going to get around, by bus?"

"I can manage." Sam knew he sounded defensive, but that was because he really hadn't thought about how he was getting from one place to the next; he'd been busy planning out the necessary stops.

"I'll take the car," he agreed, and added quickly, "but only if you with me as far as Nevada."

"Why?"

"I think I could use your help." He wasn't positive that he didn't' come off as desperate, but if Dean went along with it, then he could handle the teasing.

"For what? All you're doing is looking things up and taking notes from people who are going to ramble on for hours."

Sam almost said that he wanted Dean to give him a hand with the research, but since Dean was already opposed to the whole idea it wasn't likely to sway him.

"If I happen across a job, I'd rather you were around, it'd save time not having to drive back to get you."

He wasn't fooling his brother, and just as Sam was ready to do the unthinkable and confess that he'd be worried if Dean wasn't nearby, the matter was settled.

"Fine, I'll go, but I'm not hanging out in a bunch of libraries all day long."

"I'll be sure you get to bed and have a nap, dear," Sam assured him.

"So," Dean said as they packed the trunk, or rather, while Dean tried to haul bags way heavier than he could carry and Sam stepped in to stop him before he hurt himself. "What's in Nevada?"

"A guy named Rayne who has some equipment that I need."

"Equipment."

"A special implement for putting down a binding circle. It captures the summoned object and makes it corporeal."

"You really love throwing your ten dollar words around, don't you?"

"It's what I live for," Sam said flippantly and wrenched the last bag out of Dean's hands. "I think that's everything."

"I hope so, since you're not going to let me go check," Dean said good-naturedly as he let Sam take the keys.

"You don't mind?" Sam asked, just to make sure.

"Seeing as you know where we're going, yeah, you're driving."

*

It had been such a long time since they'd been on the road without being in a hurry to reach the next job, that Sam found he'd forgotten what it was like to be behind the wheel without feeling as though the drive was just prep-time. He had trouble not thinking about how long it was until they got where they needed to be, all the while mentally taking inventory of what was in the trunk that they would need. If anything, the arsenal had been completely broken down, cleaned, inspected, and restocked. Even if there weren't any impending jobs, Sam had gone along with Dean's automatic preparations for normal job and hadn't made a single protest. He felt better knowing that there were five different ways to repel a ghost sitting in the trunk and two more in his pocket.

The man Sam had been in contact with was positive, when they talked on the phone that he could provide what Sam was looking for. Based on their dealings other people in the business, which probably meant the man, wanted to dispense his own brand of wisdom before he handed over the stuff Sam needed. Knowing that they were ready for the unexpected, made Sam sit a little easier. He didn't have to tell Dean that there might be a problem, his brother always assumed there could be something going in the wrong direction, and it was easier that way. Even if Dean wasn't up to his normal role, there was nothing that said he couldn't help out in other ways. He'd just have to do a bit of fast-talking to get Dean to even come along and check it out.

"This guy has apparently made a career out of collecting anything that was reported to have any associations with magic or strange events."

"What you're saying is that if anybody knows what you're looking for, he will."

"Exactly."

"And he's going to hand it over."

"For a price."

"How much?"

"That hasn't exactly been worked out yet." They'd discussed a sum, and Sam had declared that he would check the piece out before he paid for it.

"But you've already agreed? Jesus, Sam, what did I teach you about negotiating?"

"You taught me plenty."

"None of it took, then."

"I wouldn't say that."

"And if he goes too high, you've got a plan?"

"Well, I thought that I'd be reasonable, appeal to his sense of justice."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Then I may need to be more persuasive." He'd get in the guy's face, take out some of the frustration he'd been dealing with for the last couple months on somebody who was trying to make his life even more difficult. It didn't sound like a bad plan at all.

Dean snorted. "There you go, trying to be so low-key about the looming and ass-kicking."

"I'm not going to kick anyone's ass, unless I absolutely have to," Sam said firmly. But if he did, in this instance, he'd enjoy it a little bit.

"Uh huh," Dean said in disbelief.

"I'm not," Sam repeated, and reached for the radio dial if just to switch the argument onto another track. The whine of static changed tones until he found a frequency that yielded a jazz station.

"Oh, Sam, when are you going to learn what good music is?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't been able to break away from the bands I liked when I was a kid, Dean."

"I just know what I like."

"And there's nothing wrong with that, but what's wrong with expanding your tastes?"

"When I actually hear something worth listening to, then that'll happen, but I haven't heard anything lately that I could stand."

"While we're in town, we're going to find a music store and we'll pick some stuff out," Sam said.

Dean didn't object aloud, but the way he rolled his eyes spoke to his digging his heels in for at least a good ten minutes before he humored Sam.

"You going to check this place out right away?"

"Soon as we get a room, yeah, I want to talk with this guy." And make sure that he wasn't going to back out on the deal or try and up the price once he took Sam's measure.

"Alright." That was pretty close to fraternal approval and he wanted to ask whether Dean knew what tack would be best to take, but then he reminded himself that Dean was only along as a favor to Sam.

*  
There was a watchful quality to Mr. Rayne that didn't jive with his obvious profession. He seemed largely settled into his small shop, if not exactly the town, but all of those minute adjustments didn't conceal the way that he took stock of people and made notes on how they fit in with what his next move would be.

Sam noticed because he did the same thing; he was trained to analyze what people did, their habits, compare it to known monsters and quickly determine whether or not they were a threat in any sense beyond the conventional. Rayne went about with different intent, and after several minutes of scrutiny Sam recognized the signs. Apparently the man didn't just deal in unique artifacts, he had some roots in the mystical, likely as some level of practitioner, though he covered that well.

As soon as Sam and Dean pushed open the door of the corner shop, the bell hanging above the entrance rang softly, a warning that there was someone breaching the entrance, and a man came out of the back room wiping his hands on a rag. He pulled up short when he saw the Winchesters; eyes narrowing, almost bracing himself on the spot as he ran his eyes over them in a swift evaluation. Once he'd found what he sought, his steps forward were quick and businesslike.

"Mr. Winchester," he said confidently, reaching out one hand and tucking the other, with the rag-stained, Sam noticed, into his pocket.

"Mr. Rayne," Sam returned, accepting the handshake.

"Ethan, please."

Sam nodded but didn't say it was a pleasure; they both knew that he was only interested in a single thing, and unless there was a short cut, he would go through the motions of civilized conversation until he lost patience. He gestured over his shoulder and added, to prevent the man from asking a leading question, "He's with me." His brother nodded, but did offer a greeting. He hovered a step behind Sam, taking in everything on the walls and placed in deliberate patterns on tables around the shop.

"Right, then, let's find those items we spoke of," Ethan said briskly, apparently not foolish and able to recognize that Sam had his reasons for being in a hurry.

"Did you have trouble finding them?" Sam asked, following him into the back room.

"Well, I had to dig through a few boxes full of objects one wouldn't readily touch without gloves and a hearty disinfectant, but aside from that, it was an opportunity to catch up on my restocking."

"Glad to hear it."

Ethan dug through a small crate and set several jars full of briny liquid to the side. Sam didn't look too closely at whatever sloshed around inside; he didn't want to know anything that would extend this trip.

"Here we are," Ethan said, reverently lifting out a small box. He placed it carefully on the table and opened it so that Sam could peek inside.

Things that had a lot of power didn't have to look all that impressive, some of the most dangerous were innocuous, ordinary unless the right circumstances surrounded them, and then there was no denying their purpose. The thin sticks lying on a velvet cloth looked a little like something a girl would twist up in her hair, a shiny ebony that gleamed even in the subdued lighting of the tiny room.

"They don't look like much, do they?" Ethan said almost proudly, and Sam shrugged.

"If they do the job, it doesn't matter what they look like."

"Well said."

"They will certainly do the job, if you're looking to capture a higher level demon," Ethan assured. "Of course they don't compel demons to tell the truth, that's an entirely different sort of casting, and even then they'll twist around it until you're not sure whether to believe a word of it." Ethan paused and frowned thoughtfully.

"I'd advise you don't take a demon's word as gospel, and if you have to, be sure you've taken precautions to protect yourself."

"That a special warning, or just a blanket one?"

"You're not from these parts, Mr. Winchester, but I'll assume you want to make sure that your acquisition is genuine, so chances are good that you may be in town a couple days. Whatever didn't spring up out of the desert naturally was brought here by force, and none of it's altogether pleased with men or those who hunt them."

Sam glanced around, eyes picking out symbols of protection that were worked into the paint and carve around the trim.

"Being careful?"

"Always."

Ethan didn't strike Sam as a man who would neglect to go the extra distance for the preservation of his own well-being, and it made him wonder what Ethan put his faith in. But he wasn't in town to incite theological debate, so unless the man did something out of line, Sam would let it go.

"You'll hear from me in a day or so," Sam said, and Ethan nodded.

"I expect so." He didn't warn Sam about trying to perform rituals without being absolutely sure everything would work perfectly, and Sam didn't threaten him.

Ethan looked outside the back room, and apparently noticing other customers, stepped into the doorway. "Then, if that's everything, Mr. Winchester, our business is concluded." He smiled brightly as he stepped out. "Ladies," he said to the women examining an arcane jewelry display. Their dark heads were bent together as they whispered and they barely glanced up when Ethan approached.

Sam tucked the amount they'd tentatively agreed upon by the cash register and nodded at Dean. Outside, the evening air seemed warm with the promises of the days to come.

*

"I'm going to run and get us something to eat, burgers okay?"

"Sure." Dean had put a little effort into being relieved he was sitting down, but not much.

Sam didn't see him frantically looking for the codeine he'd put in their bags, and from the way Dean moved he guessed that it was soreness, painful, but it would pass in time.

"Don't get up," Sam said. "I'll just be a few minutes."

"Rah, rah," Dean smirked and Sam rolled his eyes. "Tomorrow I'm going to try the ritual, on an errand boy, to be safe, start small."

Dean stiffened noticeably, and his nod was terse, but he didn't denounce Sam or tell him that the entire plan was idiotic, which was about as much as Sam had hoped for.

Sam nodded to himself and tugged his jacket off. "Too hot for all these layers," he said. "Be back in a few."

Dean's hand twitched, and Sam took it for what it was and smiled. He shut the door and heard the lock fall into place.

The Impala was parked out front, and Sam considered taking it, warring with himself and then he grinned. As he pulled out of the parking lot, NPR chatter spilled out the open windows and into the night. The restaurant was down a few blocks and three streets over. Sam drove around town after picking up the food, stopping at the spot where rocks and cacti met the asphalt. He sat there for a while, engine idling before turning around and heading back to the room.

The hotel had been nearly vacant when they checked in, and Sam was grateful for the lack of bystanders. They didn't need witnesses to their cases when their first impulse would be to interfere, either with good intentions or a game of their own. Sam would have welcomed any of those prying eyes when he found the state of the room.

The door had been broken off its hinges, the interior tossed, furniture overturned, sheets ripped and lying on the floor. A bloody handprint was smeared across the wall, and Sam knew, even as he searched the room, that Dean was gone.

Sam's immediate reaction was to panic. Family gone meant utter isolation, and that dragged Sam down so quick he couldn't breathe through the fear that suffocated him. Gradually, deeply ingrained training took over and slid him into a more productive mode. Almost before they'd learned their letters, John Winchester had taught his sons to read a scene.

The intruders hadn't paused to knock or play at having any purpose other than destruction. The door had splintered inwards and they'd come through ready to fight. They hadn't found anyone immediately; Dean had fallen back, found a weapon and taken cover. There were no other ways out except directly past the attackers, so he'd had to grab what ground he could.

Seeing him outnumbered, they'd flanked him, darted in and out, a blow dodged, one connected, droplets beaded across the lampshade, back and forth as they worked to wear him down. Dean was still hurt, pinned, and most of their weapons were in the Impale, but as he took in the room, Sam saw his brother had made them pay for every inch gained.

They had come in looking to kill Dean, but somewhere in the midst of the fighting. they'd changed their minds and shifted gears.

Sam could figure out later why they'd cared enough to put off their violent agenda for the moment. It was enough to know that they'd taken Dean with them. Assuming they were planning as they went, he had some time to get ahead of them.

His first move was to determine whether the attack was random, or if whatever had taken Dean tracked them down. There were no signs of demonic energy, and he didn't find anything to suggest that a spirit had been responsible. That left a host of other creatures with the intelligence and the instincts to knowingly pursue and engage a hunter. It could be a local monster that felt its territory would be threatened, in which case Sam knew someone who might have an idea of who had information he could use.

Ethan's shop was dark, locked up tightly, an almost perfect image of a normal retailer after hours. But Sam knew what wasn't within the scope of eccentric architecture and what singled a building out. After dark, the air on the lot fairly quivered with layers of rituals performed on the grounds. A great deal of effort had been put into helping the place disappear as the sun went down, something that now made Sam extremely curious about the proprietor's reasons for all the work. When he knocked on the door, he had a few questions, and he wasn't concerned about voicing them politely.

If Ethan had any involvement in Dean's disappearance, then the smart thing would be to make himself scarce, but Sam had gotten the impression that Ethan didn't abandon a good thing even when it soured.

Pounding on the door didn't bring the man out, and it began attracting attention, so Sam headed for the back. If he couldn't get in through the usual means, then he'd fall back on what he knew best. The employee entrance was, as he'd hoped, less reinforced, and Sam let himself in.

Inside, the air was hazy, incense curled up and it tickled Sam's sinuses. He stepped softly, not caring whether Ethan knew he was coming, but careful nevertheless.

The man was in the stockroom, kneeling in front of a stone sculpture, head bent, absorbed in prayer. Sam came up behind him and palmed his knife.

"I take it you've come around for another piece," Ethan said lightly.

"No, I haven't."

"Ah. Perhaps I can interest you in some rare books."

"Unlikely. See, I have a problem. After I left here, something broke into my room, attacked the guy inside and kidnapped him."

"Sounds as though a wild animal may have been responsible," Ethan offered, back still turned.

"What native animal breaks down a locked door and then knows how to fight?"

"We have some remarkable wildlife in the area."

"You said as much earlier." Sam stepped closer. "And I'm guessing that you're the authority on these things."

"Me? I run a shop, I don't have those kind of connections."

Sam leaned down and said softly, "They. Took My. Brother"

That tipped his hand; Ethan's sense of survival kicked in and he tried to scramble away, but Sam caught him around the throat and put his blade to bared skin.

"See, you're exactly the sort of guy who has the word on what's happening, and I bet everybody knows that. So I need you to share some of that with me. Right now."

"Would it be presumptuous to suggest a trade?"

"Yeah, I'd say it would." Sam pressed the edge in.

"I see." Ethan breathed deeply as if bracing himself for the novelty of telling the truth without being compensated.

"Share."

"This region has never been uninhabited by creatures most at home in the dark, but over the last several years, the population has undergone a boom. some of these newcomers are transients; many of them are seeking a temporary resting place or information."

"And you give it to them, the information."

"Not as a rule."

"But you're known for it."

Ethan shrugged. "I provide for people's needs, so long as they have the funds."

"Nice arrangement, but the thing is that you told someone who I was and where we were staying."

"Not the latter, they already knew of you, Winchester and had dealt with you before."

"That's why you kept using my name," Sam said. "You wanted to be sure that word got around." He berated himself for not noticing what Ethan had been doing and let some of his frustration out as he spoke." Who were they and where did they go?"

"I don't make a habit of asking for names, and they weren't eager to exchange further information."

"If you had to speculate, accurately, it being your only option, then which direction did they go?"

*  
In towns small enough to notice strangers, everybody went out of their way to check up on anybody who was just passing through. It was courteous, but also a good way of keeping trouble from setting down permanently.

Mostly the sheriff did the small talk, a badge and a congenital attitude straightened most of the kids out, and if they didn't take the hint, why then, a night in lock-up for drunk and disorderly behavior didn't harm them one little bit.

Only rarely was there ever a problem that couldn't be solved by one man, but once in awhile a drifter came into town and there was something about them that got people riled up enough to simply steer clear of them altogether.

From the moment the battered pickup truck pulled into the single empty spot in front of the only gas station, it captured attention. Where paint had been scoured away, rust coated the metal beneath, and the blue paint was steadily losing ground. The only section not battling decay was the canopy, which clashed dearly with the rest of the vehicle. It was not the way that anybody with choices would want to travel from one place to another. Without seeing the occupants, any onlookers had already formed their opinions of what sort of people would own such a thing.

Eugene, owner and full-time station attendant stepped out from behind his counter and came outside to offer assistance, and also, in his mind, to make sure that there wasn't going to be a problem. The driver and passenger hopped out, and Eugene took an unconscious step forward.

They were dark-haired, with the pale complexions of people who didn't get much sun, and they weren't putting on airs in a way that made them seem to be looking for something beyond their reach. Even taken aback as he was by their obvious poverty, Eugene found he couldn't take his eyes off them.

One swiped at the truck with a rag, doing what she could with the dirt, while the other set about filling the tank. As he watched them, Eugene they couldn't have said more than three words between them, but at the same time they worked around each other without getting in the way.

The shorter girl came up to him to pay for the gasoline, and as he passed him a handful of greasy crumpled bills, he found himself unable to take his eyes off her. The chipping of her nail polish was striking, and he followed her fingers as she moved. Her hand was on his arm without him knowing how it landed there when the second woman made a sharp sound of objection.

"We need to keep moving."

"Come on, Kate, there's time for a bite," the woman touching his arm said archly, and her smile made his skin flush.

"Not now."

"Fine." She pulled away, fingertips dragging slowly, and he moved into the touch before it was gone.

The woman withdrew back to the truck, and as he watched her go, he noticed that while most of the truck had been scrubbed, the windows of the canopy had been left alone. Beyond the glass a shadow shifted and then it was gone. The engine roared like an unhappy animal and gravel sprayed up as the truck pulled out. As he watched them go, Eugene brought his hand up to shade his eyes against the glare of the fluorescence and found that there were four distinct lines in his skin where painted nails had dug in until blood flowed.

Eugene remembered the incident with the two women and felt unsettled by how very easily he was fooled. Strangers could be interesting, but the baggage they carried never failed to swing around and get dumped on other people. That lesson was his mantra several weeks later as he stepped out of his booth to greet the young woman who'd just pulled up on a motorcycle.

Before his encounter with those two brunettes he would have been eager to spend time taking in the view, but now his appreciation was tempered with caution. The woman stayed seated on her bike, but motioned to Eugene.

"Yes, miss?" His Nana would be pleased that he was using his manners, but it was more out of self-preservation than being brought up to know the right thing to say to a lady, no matter how she acted.

"Hey, there you got a couple minutes?"

"Yeah, guess so." The station's two other pumps were empty and there was no reasonable way to get out of talking to this stranger.

"You need to fill up?" Eugene asked nervously, hoping that was all she wanted.

"I could use a smoke," she said, voice low and husky.

"Sure." Eugene fumbled in his pocket for cigarette and lighter and handed them over with awkward fingers. The girl smiled at him as if she knew why he was having so much trouble, but she didn't comment on it or try to help and that made him a little less tense.

"I'm looking for some people; they've probably been by here in the last couple weeks."

"I might've seen them, what do they look like?"

"Couple girls, dark hair."

The smile slipped off Eugene's face and despite his resolve to put on a strong front, he took a step back.

"They friends of yours?"

"You're trying to find them?"

"Yean, I'm kind of having a problem."

"If they stole that truck, I'd let it go."

"Piece of junk, isn't it?"

"You bet."

"They looked alright?"

"Bit off color, like they'd been working the night shift too long."

"Yeah, I've gotta talk to them about that."

"I don't know where they were going, but they said they were in a hurry, had to keep moving."

"So they'll be in touch."

"Sounds like it." Eugene watched as she stretched her arms over head, t-shirt sliding up until skin showed. He cleared his throat. "There was somebody with them, didn't get out of the truck, though."

"That right? You get a look at them" She arched her spine and Eugene struggled to keep his words in order.

"No, just saw them in the back, must have been sleeping there or something."

"Mmm." She resettled herself and pocketed the cigarettes. "Thanks for your help."

"No problem." He added, trying to be helpful enough to warrant another word, "I think your friends are gonna be okay."

"Five by five." Knocking the kickstand back, she grinned and revved the engine.

Eugene watched her pull out and wished that he knew whether he'd wanted her to stay or not. Once the rumble of her bike had faded from his ears and she was gone from the horizon, he wandered back inside. Nana was going to let him have it if he didn't get the books done before he came home from dinner and he wasn't even started.

*  
Sam contacted everyone in their Dad's journal first, and the messages of sympathy were nearly as bad as the admissions of ignorance. Nobody had seen Dean and they hadn't heard anything to suggest in what direction Sam should start looking. Next he put aside a need for absolute fact and listened to what everybody was saying. There were always rumors, word passed from one hunter to the next whenever there was a particularly dangerous monster making its mark. He listened to the talk, but none of it proved helpful in steering him toward Dean or whatever had taken him.

After he'd gone through the list of professionals, he tried Cassie's number. She was confused about why he'd called, and hadn't expected to hear from either of them again. In the end, Sam didn't tell her that Dean had vanished. She was eager to get off the phone, but wished him well before they disconnected, and Sam guessed that was something.

While he was going through reports of John Doe's that had turned up at hospitals and morgues across the country, Sam dug around the only thing that Dean had been in contact with before he was taken.

Sam had gone through the Impala before during one of the times Dean was out on his own. He didn't consider it nosiness; more like getting an idea of the available resources. He remembered what Dean had stowed in the car a couple of years ago, and he'd always thought that some of what Dean wouldn't say aloud could be found in his possessions.

There was an alarmingly varied stack of fake id cards in the glove box, some that Sam hadn't seen before and others that had the shiny smudges of frequent use. Somehow Dean's contempt for authority translated well into passing for a federal employee. The seats flipped down easily and when Sam lay back and looked at the ceiling, he could see where that fire spirit had grazed itself as it tried to cook them when he was ten. The marks were shadows, barely visible except to someone who woke up breathing too quickly when they felt a fire's warmth or heard that whoosh of air. Sam knew that if he kept looking at the charring those fingertips had left, he would see the outline of Jess above him and he climbed out of the front seat.

If Dean had been a girl, Sam would have equated investigating the Impala to pawing through his jewelry box, but despite the guilty prickle down Sam's neck, he didn't actually think the two were comparable. Not that he would be shocked if, when Dean caught him, his brother's reaction was way too dramatic. He'd be lucky to get his hands out of the way in time, but he felt any compromised mortality would be justified in the end and searched for hidden compartments or messages that Dean thought he should have in case something happened that neither of them were ready for.

There were pockets under the seats, and a false compartment where Dean had put a wedding picture of John and Mary Winchester's and one of Sam and Dean when they were somewhere in middle school. Dean was leaning up against Sam, not smiling, as if he knew what he was supposed to be doing, but Sam knew Dean's expressions and there was something going on behind the responsible airs he was putting on. The pictures, hidden away where nobody would find them, unless they were seriously looking and they knew what they symbolized, would care, made Sam's gut clench and he placed them carefully back in place and closed everything back up. He had a search running for unexplained animal attacks, and if it came up with something, he could make it to the next state by morning.

*

Faith knew, as she pulled onto the highway that the smartest thing would have been to call the hotline Willow had set up and let them know that there was a situation. Now that there were enough girls out past curfew who knew how to take care of themselves, she could get some help in a day or two. But none of them actually expected her to pick up the phone; it was enough to know that she'd picked out a territory and was keeping it clean.

Still, Willow had pulled her aside and been insistent that Faith shove the number in her pocket instead of using it for her gum.

"I'll be fine, Red."

"I know, it's just so you have it."

"Thanks," she said, and meant it. Willow had been decent to her, after the collapse of Sunnydale and even if she wouldn't take her part against B in one of their arguments, she didn't automatically side with B. Willow wanted everyone to get along and if she wasn't able to figure out a way to do that, she tried to get them out of each other's way long enough for her to find one. Mostly she baked, rewrote the laws of magic and flat out intimidated everyone else into getting along. Since Faith didn't really need to prove that she was the boss and didn't expect to get the job even if it was open she sat back a lot of the time and laughed at the way B and the Scoobies were organizing an empire of their very own. Somehow she'd gotten a place on the periphery, as a sort of consulting specialist, or at least that was how they were listing her on paperwork somewhere. So she had a phone number and the point had been made that checking in regularly wouldn't go unnoticed.

"Just, take care," Willow said and leaned in to hug Faith.

Surprised, Faith tolerated the embrace for several beats and then she wriggled free. "Watch it, hon, don't want your girl to get jealous."

Willow rolled her eyes. "Kennedy knows she doesn't have anything to worry about, so don't you go putting crazy ideas in her head," she said and pointed a stern finger at Faith.

"No cat fights for your virtue?" Faith inquired archly.

Willowed raised an eyebrow and told Faith what she could do with that kind of talk.

"Alright, then."

"Be good, or at least be safe," Willow said as she waved, and Faith grinned.

"Always am."

After Sunnydale was destroyed, Faith had known that there wouldn't be a town she could claim so thoroughly by herself. The thought didn't bother her too much; she had been on the road for years, but she didn't have any interest in leaving one country to wander a strange one. And more than that, she didn't particularly want to hang out with the other Slayers. Close quarters had been all the 'girl time' she wanted for awhile. Giggling and makeup got boring; she liked to vary her fun. She could lead them, but hunting solo was more her style than group demonstrations.

B could make speeches and divide maps in such a way that each Slayer had a place, and she was so locked into doing things one way that she couldn't see any other. Some days it was good to be shown the way, others needed a bulldozer and stubbornness; the problem was that B didn't really know how to let anyone else drive. The only person who knew how to get around her was her best friend, because she'd been doing it for so long that everyone knew that was the way things worked and even B didn't particularly want to mess with Willow when she was resolved.

Faith on the other hand, hadn't been grounded long enough to understand why it was such a big deal. Granted, the second it got too nasty at home she skipped out, but 'fresh air' had never been worth savoring. That was leaving out time spent thinking long and hard about why naughty girls had to pay their way sooner or later. But a solar eclipse made for early parole and she had a chance to reflect on everything. Though, going on about 'the wide, wide world' was pushing it. She let Giles and B make the big speeches about what the next move was, and it sounded way too much like redesigning the old system to put another one in its place. That was way too much organization, and there were bound to be committees and meetings that she would have had to sit through, and she had never been able to sit still for long.

Despite the fact that she'd seen all of this coming, she sort of wished it hadn't. Late at night she used to figure that down the road would be parole and a 'go here and clean up this mess' card sent by whoever was still kicking. Maybe it would have sparkly lip-gloss on it, care of the *real Slayer* who could never say what she actually meant. But Faith said those things for her, and now at least, they could acknowledge that one of them was being honest.

After she made her break, there was the matter of keeping herself fed and clothed. Before prison she'd have scared up cash the old fashioned way- 'draw them in and knock 'em down.' But as it happened, there were jerks a 'plenty with overflowing wallets, and happening across wrongdoing was a sure way to get a share. She wasn't being full of herself when she said that she'd staked a lot of vamps. It was a requirement of the gig, and her expertise had been earned with each successive night that she built her reputation. When she had to almost pull a muscle leaning on the throttle to keep up with a group of vamps, then she had to admit that there was something a little different about these bloodsuckers.

The pack was smarter than a lot of the vamps she'd dusted. These parasites hadn't found one town they liked and settled in the way most creatures did; instead they kept to the roads, feeding and moving on quickly. It made her curious; nobody chose the road without good reason, and for these vamps to brave the uncertainty of being always traveling meant that their lessons had been especially brutal. Not that h she cared really, about what had happened; she just needed to now their habits and route so that she could track them down.

They had to have a van or something that was large enough to sleep in during the day, and she guessed, to stash their victims in when they wanted a snack. If their plans extended that far, then they would have stolen a home on wheels, which was unfortunate for them, because that kind of vehicle was more obvious and easier to find. She'd picked up a radio from a grabby trucker Ohio, and had it tuned to the frequencies with the most chatter and waited for someone to mention her quarries.

There was nothing overt, at least not on the main channels, but within a couple of days there were rumors of bad things happening at truck stops, drivers doing a good turn, stopping to check out a car with a dead battery and coming up missing the next day. Unsurprisingly, the disappearances were happening along a single line of interstate; never more than one in a week, and no less than several hundred miles or so apart. The vamps had learned how to hit their prey as fast as they found it and to take off again. That showed they had some experience in working together and avoiding the authorities, which made her think that at least one of them hadn't just crawled out of their grave and they were passing on what they knew to the next generation. There had to be a reason for them not killing more than a trucker every seven days, but it was taking long nights driving and gathering what information she could from anyone who'd seen anything at all for her to figure out what was going on. Not seeing the sun very often wasn't unusual; she'd taken to living after dark years ago, and it just made sense to keep the same hours as the things she hunted. Sure there was business to be done during normal hours, but not much of it, and after the sun set, she went to work.

For weeks she was chasing the reports of their attacks, never seeing anything that would tell her if she were headed down the right road, and then one night, she happened across their latest meal.

The man was dead; drained and dumped into the cab of his truck before it was abandoned in a rest stop. Nobody had seen the body yet; the way they dumped their kills was part of what made her twitchy about how smart they were being about their hunting. Until she climbed up to peer inside, it looked as though the driver had pulled in to take a nap, and nobody was going to disturb someone else unless they really thought there was something going on. Even though she knew they wouldn't have hung around, Faith scanned the lot for any likely suspects and found nothing.

It was getting close to daylight, but she didn't plan on getting any sleep; she had confirmation that she was going the right way. The body was still warm; they'd only been here a few hours ago, and if she broke the speed limit, she could cut their lead down to nothing.

They probably expected to be chased; the speed at which they hunted hinted at some history that had taught them fear, if not good sense. To really make themselves invisible to the law and anyone, who might be following them, they should have headed into the woods and done thier part to increase the number of missing hikers. Their oversight made her job simpler, and so she wasn't going to let them in on where they screwed up.

*

Growing up, Sam had met a few other hunters, some were pretty good at it, but did it casually, whenever they got the urge to roam and get out of their routines. Others were well worth avoiding; those were the ones who had a loss to avenge and couldn't see past that pain. They eyed everyone suspiciously, staying on the fringes of life, and talked about hunting as if they had been commanded to carry out a holy mission. Sam had never included himself in one of those groups; he was doing what was right and he wouldn't let up until he made things right. Now he thought that he might have more in common with some of the more single-minded loners. When he found Dean, he'd ask what the joke was, his brother would have one, and it would probably go something along the lines of how school had taught him to apply himself and focus. Sam would let him have as much of a laugh as he wanted, and maybe later he'd tell Dean what he'd learned in school.

At Stanford, he'd found that having secrets didn't make you different, it just meant you were discreet. He wasn't interested in being anything uncommon amongst his classmates and even went to a great deal of trouble to be nothing special. That was part of the reasons he wasn't expecting to run into someone he'd like to have understand him; he got used to keeping his head down and sticking to a routine. He attributed his need to keep his life orderly and simple to the way their father had raised them. They never knew when it might be time to pack up again, and so Sam learned how much he needed to depend on his family instead of the world outside their little circle. Sometimes he wondered if that had been part of their father's plan to toughen them up to never let them grow so irrevocably to a person or place that they couldn't stand to leave it behind. In an ironic twist, he'd gone back to that life and found that there were people that he wouldn't let go, even if all they had was their work and a need to bind one another further into their corner.

Other people didn't often pick up on the focused determination that drove him. They saw the way his body was angled slightly back the way he came, and recognized his stance as that of a man who wouldn't move until he had a reason, but they couldn't see that his worn flannel and denim were the markings of a wanderer still wrapped up in the need that held him together. Anybody who had the instincts to know that Sam was serious when he asked about 'weird stuff' and kept prodding until he got all the gory details, had some idea about what a bad idea it would be to withhold information or get in his way after they mentioned a girl on a motorcycle.

He wasn't positive that the girl had something to do with Dean's disappearance, because even though a girl could keep Dean occupied for a couple days, it wasn't likely that she'd been able to knock him out and tag team him, not unless she was some kind of super powered freak. It seemed more likely that this was another person who knew about monsters and who could be walking into something that would get her killed. Sam gave her credit for readjusting her habits though, evidently she'd realized; there were things that could only come out after dark, and then there were those that chose to be seen when night fell. Now Sam knew that he was looking for someone who knew as much and who'd gone as far as leading a parallel life. What that said about them, he didn't know, but it seemed like a good plan.

He had always been adept at getting the facts and making them fit. Now he drove from town to rest stop, listening to stories and putting speculation together with exaggeration until he had enough to thin everything down to a fair approximation of the truth. It still came out to mostly implausible; he had his suspicions about Eugene, the gas station attendant having a bit of a crush, but then there were a couple bikers who swore that the girl, no Xena in stature, had unhesitatingly and effortlessly knocked one of their buddies flat on his back when he tried to be friendly.

The concept of unusually strong women wasn't unheard of. Furies and the Fey came to mind, but the third possibility put ice in Sam's stomach. Meg had never given them an exact count of how many children the demon had, and any of that number wouldn't have a qualm about seeking revenge for their siblings. But when Sam learned that the girl had been trying to find out everything she could about a series of vicious wild animal attacks, Sam thought he knew who was responsible. Smart, aware of hunters, ripping people's throats out, and having a grudge against the Winchesters, that narrowed the field. Sam had a name for the enemy and he mouthed it to himself as he filled milk jugs with holy water.

Given their pattern of feeding and the distances they traveled each night, the vampires were using a van or something so that they could sleep in security during the day. Dean was alive, otherwise they would have left him behind as a message for Sam. That wasn't their aim; the whole plan rested on their need for revenge to get back at the men who had hurt them. Sam could understand, and he intended to reinforce the stupidity of letting one get away.

*  
The vamp-mobile was parked under the carport of a small house just off the main road. Checking inside, Faith didn't find any bloodsuckers, but there was a pile of blankets in the rear, stained with blood, not like someone had bled out on them, more like the monsters had taken some time with their food. Faith had seen what happened to those who got past just being on the menu and were considered worth further attention, and none of it could be repaid with a quick staking.

There was a second car; parked in the driveway, undoubtedly belonging to the owners of the house who were having an unexpectedly unpleasant night. But, taking what good she could find, Faith thought there was a chance that not everyone was deed. Given enough time and relative security, one began to be curious and try new things. And while they were plumbing their sadistic urges, Faith slashed their tires and did a couple other things to ensure that they didn't have a getaway vehicle. She wasn't planning on letting them get away, but it paid to cover all possibilities.

She found the front door expertly jimmied, not kicked in as she assumed. They'd gone to a lot of trouble for this kill, and so she moved with all the stealth she'd leaned sneaking out of her mom's house to avoid the latest boyfriend and the entitlement they found in a bottle. If anyone had asked her, Faith would have told them she thought the men who had problems with strong women were afraid to own up to their own faults. Nobody asked her that kind of thing, but she had her thoughts in order all the same.

The house wasn't badly damaged inside; the intruders had come inside with some helpful lock-picker's assistance and hurried upstairs. Faith took in the furnishings, pictures, and atmosphere and judged there to be a family of five upstairs with as many bedrooms for the vampires to be in. Even if they did sound an alarm, Faith knew they'd try and use any survivors as hostages, try and fool her into thinking that they could be reasoned with, but she knew better and wouldn't be taken in.

Vamps liked to play with their meals, and whatever reason they had for stopping, it wasn't to make a stand. Most of them thought that they could take one anything dumb enough to get in their way, and that was wired into their very nature. They had to think they were the best monster since the bogeymen; if they had doubts, there were performance issues. So far these geniuses had been able to keep a few miles ahead of Faith, so they probably felt relatively safe. Their expressions when she knocked the door in with a well placed kick attested to their belief that they were untouchable.

The one closest to the door adjusted first; she was crouched over a redhead in a house dress, the mother of the kid she was clutching, and obviously Faith had interrupted a game of psyching out the entrees. At first evaluation, the girl was young still on the outside, but her smile said she'd looked at slack mouths and been the cause of blank, staring eyes. She didn't bob her head, or do anything over to signal her partner, but Faith could tell that she knew how to fight.

"You've been following us," the girl sounded sure of it.

Faith shrugged, not bragging, just acknowledging the fact. "Figured that I could, and wanted to see what you girls were up to." She glanced around the room, noting the layout, as well as picking out anything that could be used as a weapon. Though, from just a glance, there was enough kick in the bitty girl sitting on a ratty mattress across the room to keep almost anyone contained. The rumble of energy in the air told her there wasn't a whole lot further that she could take this before everything exploded into fists instead of words.

The look Faith got said clearly that nobody was fooled and that they got this wasn't a casual thing she'd happened to stumble into.

"You've got something against us?" the second brunette said. She had been lounging on the bed when Faith made her entrance but now she stood up, leaving the form behind her without a glance. Faith couldn't tell what condition the guy was in; his face was turned toward the wall and it looked like he'd been thrown belly down on the mattress just to keep him out of the way but close by.

"It's not personal, just part of my job," Faith said, knowing that she was doing that thing B did where she sounded earnest and sort of apologetic about all the trouble she was going to cause.

"Yeah, and that would be what?" The woman looked Faith over with what she probably intended to be unsettling derision, but Faith had been through prison and Watcher-run performance reviews, so this wannabe didn't even come close to freaking her out.

"I'm a Slayer," Faith said and wasn't surprised when she didn't get much of a reaction. "Yeah, I'm serious, no, I'm not a groupie, and you two really suck at covering your tracks." She smiled, as if she'd just been his by a bolt of insight. "Unless that was your plan; suck and run, but leave clues that even an amateur could follow. Which means you're expecting someone else." As she spoke, Faith twitched her sleeves, feeling the stakes resting in their sheaths. The shape of the could have spasmed in pain, but that shudder took them a bit too close to the edge of the bed for Faith to buy it.

"It doesn't matter," the brunette standing over the woman and apparently dubbing herself the nastiest woman in the room. Between Faith and her acting out, she objected.

What she hadn't gotten with her attitude, she'd claimed in whatever way suited her mood, and these vamps had no idea what they were doing.

"Walk away," the other girl said persuasively. "You might be good but there are two of us, and you'll go down fast."

"I could do that," Faith agreed." But I don't think you'd let me go."

"We would," was the unconvincing response.

Faith shook her head. "I've done this," she motioned at the room, blood spray on furniture, a family brutalized, monsters thinking they were in control, "more times than I can remember, and not much chances. Most importantly, the fact that I'm going to take you apart." She let her arms drop to her sides, the stakes dropped into waiting palms she stepped up to the first wild punch, and she stepped up too the first wild punch.

They weren't bad fighters; working together they could likely take on almost anything that didn't have Chosen in their blood, and do it fast. She had several advantages; strength, speed, and she was used to fighting alone.

When a fist came at her face she ducked and returned the blow. She didn't wait to get her nose broken, instead she automatically evaded and retaliated.

The two vamps tried to cut off her escape, but she struck out, clearly not trying to get away and they had to move defensively.

Curled up on the floor, the mother and child scooted back to the wall, keeping as much distance as they could. Faith might have shouted advice to them or gotten them out at all costs, but there was that guy on the bed and if she turned her back on anyone, the vamps might just decide to get out with what they could.

Not completely frozen with terror, the mother watched for an opening and as her eyes met Faith's the Slayer nodded and gave her a chance. Clutching her kid, she scrambled forward, almost losing her footing, but she recovered and made it out the door. Faith heard the clatter of shoes on the stairs and counted those two as safe.

The first vamp snarled, all prettiness ruined by anger. "Bitch," she said, and Faith grinned.

"As if that's news." She'd been called worse by people she actually cared about.

"They were dinner."

"Looked more like entertainment," Faith retorted, and swore as one of the pair got in a punch to her stomach. She staggered back, legs hitting the bed and went over onto the quilt, colliding with the body lying there. As she reached out, she discovered that the guy's clothes were stiff with blood so he had been playing party favor, and secondly, he was still breathing and thinking. His hands came up and shoved her back up, and he said in voice raspy from screaming, "Cut off their heads, stake's no good."

Faith didn't give him a disbelieving look; the vamps hadn't been bothered when she pulled out the sharpened sticks, and she had something more her style freshly tended and easy to reach. Using one of the stakes as a projectile didn't always work perfectly, but two of them hurled at exactly the right velocity hit their target and the quieter girl was pinned to the wall.

"Kate," the mouthy one gasped, looking frantically at her companion. When the stakes hit, her body had jerked as if it was her that they'd struck, and then she turned to Faith,. renewed ferocity in her posture, and Faith was betting, a fair amount of desperation.

"You'll pay," she threatened, and Faith interrupted the whirl of nails and limbs with a couple good jabs, sending her crashing into the bed. Whether he was up to a little teamwork or not, Faith wouldn't shrug it off, and she wanted to know if he could lend a hand. The vamp landed on the bed, much as Faith had, but the man moved to meet her, rolling hard against her, something in his hand, blade dark and wet. He plunged it into her chest, and let her hit him as she screamed, leaning over her, teeth bared in a way that made Faith wonder about him.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he said, and the girl cursed him, landing glancing blows, but he took it, looking up at Faith. "Well, come on, this stuff doesn't work like super glue."

"Right," she said, not sure whether she was supposed to mind taking directions during a fight. Concealing a machete or a short sword was a real pain, but it was worth it to see that look of disbelief in the eyes of her prey. It was a bit over the top, and she missed her special knife, but a larger blade was sometimes the tool for the job. "Hold her still," she said, and the guy did just that. His arms were shaking though, and she could tell that he wouldn't be able to keep his grip for long, so she made the necessary cut in one blow.

"They don't turn into dust."

"Do they usually?"

"Pretty much all the time."

"Weird." He slumped back and added. "Might want to stop Kate, she's making a break for it."

Kate hadn't made a sound when the other vamp was beheaded, not knowing her or caring, Faith couldn't say for sure, but she seemed toughened enough to have expected as much, but she had been working herself free despite the damage inflicted on her body. When Faith turned around, she was staggering toward the door. About to take a second swing, Faith stepped back and in front of the bed, shielding the guy as everyone in the room stared at the arrow suddenly piercing Kate's chest.

The kid who stepped through the doorway could have claimed a spot on any basketball team, but he wouldn't have made it through the metal detectors with crossbow he was aiming at the entire room. He knocked Kate down and gave Faith a searching look, taking in the dripping blade she was holding. "Go ahead," he said tersely, and she moved in.

"Step away from the bed," he ordered, crossbow still trained on her.

Faith didn't like to be told what to do when she'd been there first, and she smiled like she wanted to bite instead. "No."

"Lady, I'm not kidding," he snapped and Faith laughed.

"Do I look like a lady to you?"

"Not really."

"Then don't try and piss me off any more than you already have, and get that thing away from us." She kept herself between the two guys and was waiting for the giant to make a wrong move so that she could kick him across the room.

"Us?" He sounded incredulous, which was great, confusion in her enemies was just fine.

"Yeah, the guy bleeding on the bed," Faith said carefully.

"I feel like a trophy wife," came a labored whisper, and suddenly the bed and its occupant were the focus of everyone's attention.

"Dean?" The guy said, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He took a step toward the bed, and Faith shook off her sword, the wet slap bringing his eyes back to her.

"Watch it."

"That's my brother," he explained, sounding as if he didn't think she deserved the explanation.

"That true?"

"Sammy, hey."

Sammy rushed forward, and Faith let him, taking the other side of the bed to make sure that Rambo jr. wasn't going to pull something from under his floppy hairdo. How he could see with his bangs in his face, she had no idea.

"Dean," Sammy said softly, and he when he actually lowered the crossbow enough to reach out with a careful hand, Faith took that as good as a background check. That didn't mean she was backing off, but she wasn't going to take his head off quite yet.

"Yep." Dean coughed, and Sam mirrored Faith's flinch. It sounded like Dean was trying to breathe around broken ribs, and she was hoping there wasn't internal bleeding to round them out.

"You freak," Sam got out, fingers resting lightly on his brother's arm, obviously not sure where he could touch without hurting him any more.

"Took you long enough," Dean jibed and Sam's mouth fell open a little.

"Right, sorry about that, I was kind of caught up in the fact that you couldn't leave me any clues. I mean, who disappears and doesn't leave a note or at least a trail of candy?"

"Didn't think I had to, you being all grown up."

"I was under a lot of stress."

Dean waved a hand to encompass the room and his situation. "No excuse. You're way out of practice."

Faith was staring at them, and didn't care if they noticed, which they didn't. This was taking avoidance of any real emotional statements with careless banter to a level she hadn't seen in years, and these guys were apparently performance artists. They should have their own act and take it on the road. "Not that this isn't hilarious, which I'll give you, but we'd better get Dean here some actual medical help, unless you're using sarcasm instead of stitches."

That brought back the glowering, and Faith brushed it off with an eye roll. "Yes, you're in touch with your feelings, I get it, now pick him up and get him out of here, we need to get out of here before the cops come."

"She's right," Dean said, and Sammy looked like he was about to object again when his brother's eyes slid shut and he apparently lost consciousness. That got Sammy moving, saving Faith the trouble of smacking him around, and she pull out a rag to wipe down anything she thought they might have touched. It'd keep the cops from coming after her, and hey, it was a nice gesture, even if Sammy didn't appreciate it.

Outside, Sammy was loading Dean into an Impala, and Faith let out a whistle as she moseyed over toe the vamp's ride, flipping her lighter open, she lit the rag, and dropped it inside. As it caught on fire, Sammy glanced up and mouthed 'why?' at her, and Faith sighed. For someone who wasn't too bad with the riding to the rescue bit, he sure didn't know much about concealing the unexplainable from people who couldn't handle it.

"What are you doing?" he demanded when she came up alongside the car.

"Coming with you," she said. "Gotta make sure my boy here is okay."

"My brother will be fine," Sam said tersely.

Faith was beginning to wonder if good manners had been in this guy's schoolbooks. "Look, I could care less what your deal is, but this guy helped me out, and I want to return the favor. And, I've got my own ride," she said, pointing to her bike. "I'll follow whether you like it or not."

Sammy looked as if he was choking down something unpleasant but nodded. "Fine, for now."

"Sure," Faith agreed, and maybe her smile was pushing the bounds of helpfulness, but she didn't tone it down, it was fun watching this guy twitch.

Pulling out quietly, they kept under the speed limit, driving as if they hadn't just made the best of a nasty incident, and as the wind whipped her hair back, Faith heard sirens wailing behind them.

Sammy more or less carried his brother from the car to the motel room and wouldn't let Faith offer to help. From the way Sammy glanced down at his brother, Faith guessed that Dean would be mortified if he knew he was being carted around like a fainting princess. She had to applaud his ruse; nothing like having a loved one pass out to snap someone bullheaded out of their ranting, and Dean was likely a pro at knowing when Sammy was too wound up for reason to penetrate.

With his mind on a single task, Sammy was extremely focused, and he got Dean on a bed, done some protection type thing with a baggie of salt he pulled from his pocket. He was about to strip him down when it dawned on him that Faith hadn't disappeared. His double-take was comical and she smiled pleasantly.

"Don't let me stop you," she urged, but Sammy's hands stilled.

"Not that Dean wouldn't mind, normally, but would you step out?" He waved at the bathroom and Faith got the message.

"As if I'd jump a guy half-dead and unconscious," she scoffed, and produced the impressively stocked box of bandages and other materials that she'd happened across when she took a look in the car.

Sammy frowned at her, plainly waiting for her to vamoose, and Faith sighed, humoring him. "Three minutes, then I'm going to give you a hand."

"Thanks."

Ten seconds before she opened the door, Sammy turned the knob and motioned to her. "I could use some help with the bandages."

Between the two of them, they got Dean braced on a couple pillows, and Faith decided that if he wasn't out of it, she might have done something to really set Sammy off. That is, if Dean didn't look like he'd been used as a toy by a couple of monsters. There were a lot of bite marks, all along the inside of Dean's arms and one low on his belly that only looked a couple hours old. As she looked, she saw other scars, a nasty set of vertical lines down the middle of his chest still had faint suture impressions and Faith wondered how long he'd been back on his feet before he got grabbed by the toothsome twins.

"Those were bad," she said, and Sammy nodded sharply.

"He's going to be fine, we've just got to clean out these bites so they don't get infected."

That was a new one, usually anybody who got bitten slapped some ointment on it and wore a cross for a few months, but Sammy seemed certain about what had to be done. She didn't ask what he was doing; that was the surest way to admit that she was out of her depth with vamps that didn't disintegrate when they got a stake in the heart. It was possible that they were a new kind that had sprung up in areas where there weren't a lot of professionals keeping their numbers in check, or Sammy was extremely paranoid about germs.

Whatever Sammy was pouring on the puncture wounds didn't smell like alcohol, but Dean's reaction and hiss of pain was the same and Faith had to brace herself and hold him down.

"Shit," Dean said succinctly, and Faith narrowly avoided getting kicked in the chest as he bucked against her. For a guy who was more lean energy than muscle, he was still doing a decent job of trying to get free, and she knew that he'd been fighting the vamps every inch of the way.

"I know it hurts, Dean," Sammy said as he added one of his arms to Faith's cause.

Dean said very colorfully that Sammy had absolutely no idea and if he knew what was good for him, he would hurry up before his big brother got free and gave him a good thrashing. Faith grinned as he enunciated each four letter word and Sammy grimaced as he poured more water. Dean didn't faint again, but he did a good impression of it with the stoic silence and Faith watched Sammy get more agitated as they stitched and bandaged Dean up then settled him back on a couple pillows to wait out the night.

Sammy's nervous pacing and surfing on his laptop were telling, and Faith could tell that silence didn't sit well with him when it was his brother's and he was concerned about what Dean wasn't telling them.

It was some early hour of the next morning when Dean arched upwards, gasping loudly and Faith leapt to her feet, Slayer speed putting her at his bedside before Sam stirred.

His head turned to find Sammy, saw his brother sacked out in the armchair by the window, head back, mouth open as he snored softly. After he relaxed, he glanced her way. "Hey." Even with the smile, it was a feeble attempt at reassuring her that he was feeling great, thanks and by the way could she run out to get him something to drink.

"Hi there," she said, crouching by his shoulder and offering her hand to give him a chance to be a more acceptable member of society. "Faith."

"Dean."

"Yeah, I got that." She couldn't help adding, "Guess you're not big on secret identities, then."

"Uh, not so much."

"Because your brother there blew it with the whole shouting your name to the world."

"He's never learned about indoor voices," Dean confided in a ragged whisper and this time his smile was more natural.

Over the next couple days, as she watched Sammy pull himself together to prove he was capable of taking care of Dean, she got an idea of what these guys did. Both brothers acted as if they could handle themselves and she'd seen some of that. They were trained, somehow, but not by any organization that she could easily think up. The way Sammy had burst into the room without preparation or a partner would have gotten him a scathing dressing down from Gwendolyn Post, and then she probably would have tried to disarm him. Faith could tell that even suggesting such a thing would be a monumentally unfortunate idea and that the result would end in broken limbs. She didn't care whether they got offended by her nosiness, and so got a lot of answers, more from Dean, who needed the distraction, then from Sammy, who seemed to be holding onto a generally surly suspicion about her real motives for helping them. Whenever he caught Faith talking with Dean too long, he gave his brother a look that Dean pointedly ignored.

Although she wouldn't tell him so, Sammy shouldn't have been worried that Dean would spill the secrets of their lives; he could talk a lot, that boy could, but when it came to actually give her what she wanted to know, he doled the dirt out like he was running an interrogation from the other side. It was interesting and frustrating, and he knew that it drove her nuts, but it also kept her coming back to fluff his pillows and give him a hard time when Sammy loitered nearby and utterly failed at being mistaken for a coat rack.

After several of these conversations, they had a routine, and when Faith strolled into the motel room with provisions, Dean inched over to one side of the bed and put a hand out for the bag that had his burger and onion rings. Faith dropped down beside him and kept an eye on his hands as he tore into his food. Dean talked around physical difficulty like it was an obstacle course, but she could tell if he was having trouble just from watching the way his hands moved. It was fast becoming a fixation and every time Dean caught her at it, he gave her a smirk that went past knowing into promise. She didn't blush, wouldn't let herself, but she'd taken to brushing her hair behind her ears whenever he smiled.

As they ate, Faith said the first thing that occurred to her, something she'd been working over in her head. "You really don't have any special way to find monsters when you're hunting?"

"Other than looking for them?" Like that wasn't the easiest conclusion to reach.

"Right."

"No." That wasn't true, there were things beyond that flat answer that Faith knew he wasn't ready to share. He hadn't glanced over at Sammy, but Faith had figured that out without any psychic assistance.

"Why not?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, why don't you find a shortcut, get a direct line to whoever's on the other side."

"And who'd bother doing that?" He didn't add that thought one wouldn't get much help, but Faith was getting much better at hearing the words cut from Dean's answers. Dean left off tearing up an onion ring and looked at Faith as if he was waiting for her to confess some deep purpose for asking the question, when it was simply the fact that she didn't get to compare notes much and had was more than casually curious about his answer.

"I'd think that you'd take every advantage."

"We do."

Now she was offending him, which hadn't been her intention. Apparently the network that these guys worked with was much less extensive than what the Scoobies had been organizing. If that was a sore spot with Dean then it wouldn't be smart to keep pushing at him, not when she wanted him to tell her any more about him and what he did.

"I bet," was all she said, but she tried to project an apologetic attitude.

Dean turned back to his meal and they were quiet for a while.

Sammy wandered back into the room and came up to get his own food. He eyed Faith and frowned when he noticed how close she was sitting to Dean, but he didn't say a word and just sat down to eat.

It was getting close to morning when Dean finally closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep. He still wasn't able to keep daylight hours and while Faith didn't have the background on his old habits, she had a sense that it wasn't normal and that it would be worth watching. The few times he managed to get up on his own, she kept an eye on him and angling herself so that she could stare past the cracked door and wait as Dean was motionless in front of the bathroom mirror. The first time she saw him step around the door, movements stuttering like he was thinking three steps ahead of his feet, she thought it was weird, the second time, she knew she'd called it right and slid her gaze sideways to see if Sammy had picked up on it yet.

Making sure that Sammy was aware of Dean's new quirks seemed just as important as intercepting the moment when he decided what to do about the situation. What Sammy decided to do with Dean now was going to be key in his recovery. He had the ability to reinforce parts of Dean's life that no one else could hope to. Just standing back and seeing the way that they moved around each other the lure of family was strong as they rediscovered their roles and tried to make them stick.

Sammy was apparently most comfortable burying himself in legends of all things that crept, crawled, and stalked the unwary, and he went overboard with facts in a way that Faith associated with Red and Giles. There was a purpose to a couple of his insanely detailed research projects; if he got going on a subject he and Dean had particularly personal experience with, there was a story told, and Faith could tell that his brother relaxed into the familiar with each word.

Sammy wouldn't let just anyone hear even the most harmless portions of Dean's story, and Faith caught on that it wasn't safe for an outsider's ears. The thing was, she wanted to be sitting next to them and not have Sammy edit himself because she was there. She could have said it was her right to know what made a Winchester, but that wouldn't go over well. Sammy's trust was like a ghost, and she didn't know whether to confront him or try and be patient until he came to terms with her presence. A couple times, when Dean was asleep, body twisted around discomfort, Faith caught Sam eyeing her fingers as they rested with increasing propriety on his brother's wrist. Even if neither of them could actually say it, Sammy needed Dean in a way that could only come from blood. Nothing could hope to stand against such a force, but maybe she could move with it.

Faith thought a lot about where they were going to go after Dean was recovered; none of the Scoobies would really know what to do with someone who came pre-broken. It hadn't worked for Faith and she didn't see B taking these two in without basic differences tearing them apart. Like her, they weren't students of the school trying to find the big fix for the world. Staying whole and keeping their score higher than the other side was enough for them.

The morning that both Sammy and Faith fell asleep on watch and woke up to find Dean missing, they found common ground in panic, and when Dean wandered in and upending a sack of clothes on the bed, they shared a look that was to Faith, truce and understanding.

If Dean caught any of their worry, he ignored it heroically.

Most used to his brother's apparent desire to give him a scare, Sammy spoke first. "Did you finish the laundry?"

Giving him a withering look, Dean nodded. "On the way out of town, we're going to have to stop at the Goodwill, some of those shirts are definitely headed for the rag pile."

"Were there any survivors?" Faith asked.

"Funny," Dean said from where he'd sat down on the floor. He grabbed a pillow, shoved it under his legs. As he began stretching Faith hoped that he wasn't putting stress on the stitches in his stomach. Trying to convey interest and not smothering concern, Faith sat up to get a better look.

"What're you doing?"

"Getting a feel for this place." Which was as good a non-answer as any.

"Through the carpet?" Sammy interjected, and Faith was getting better at translating, because now she could tell that he was concerned, but knew how much good it would do to try and keep Dean from doing what he wanted.

"You can tell a lot about a room by its decor."

"And what've you found out?"

Sitting up, Dean rubbed his lower back. "Just that there's gotta be someone to blame for the floor in here." That Faith decoded as he was sore, but nothing was torn and he could handle it, so they needed to ease up.

"Most people use the bed," Sam pointed out, and message received, didn't nag.

"It's got lumps," Dean noted, and Faith shrugged.

"Better than the floor," and that was as close as she let herself coming to saying anything about him pushing himself too hard.

"You two need to lighten up."

"We are light," Sam protested.

"And cheery," Faith agreed.

Dean looked at them, eyebrows raised and snorted. "You two need to get out more." He sat up slowly and kicked off his boots and moved gingerly over to the bed. "Move," he said to Sammy and when his brother didn't shit over fast enough, he flopped down, more or less in the middle, Faith on one side, Sammy on the other. "I'm sleeping, you kids play nice."

Sammy flicked Dean's ear and got swatted. Pulling out his computer, Sammy began tapping out his next search for the freaky and dangerous and Faith sat back. Now that Dean was mobile again it was probably getting close to time to move on. She'd satisfied herself that these two could take care of themselves, and it felt like they were working toward how they used to get along. They didn't need her to mediate, and she wasn't hauling Dean around, so there was really nothing for her to do but take lots of naps and be entertained by their one-upmanship and squabbles. The first piece of furniture they broke, she knew would be the signal for them to move on and then she wouldn't have any more excuses. It had been nice though to have a hunt end with a chance for her to kick back with a couple of guys who weren't hard to look at and who didn't keep what they thought to themselves.

Either Sammy saw her expression or he was doing research on mind reading, because he broke off typing to say, "Guess you'll be moving on soon."

That was one thing she like about him, he could be polite, but when his brother was in trouble, all of the ways he made himself fit into a cut-out of the good young man were dropped and he was honest and said what was on his mind.

"Yeah, there's been some demons making trouble in Georgia, I thought I'd give them some back."

"Demons?" Sammy sat like he had a steel rod down his spine, and he was gripping his laptop so hard that Faith wondered if the casing was protesting.

"You've seen a demon, right?" She didn't want to have to let them in on the whole mouth of Hell thing without some prep.

"I have. We have." From the way Sammy wasn't saying much, she got that the story was big. "You're taking on a demon by yourself?"

"Most demons, the ones I take out aren't that big a deal. Most of them think that they're tough, but a stake does the job every time."

"But if they're serious?"

"Then I pack extra gear."

"Right." Which was not what Sammy meant.

"I've been doing this for years." She continued, because Sammy looked like he was trying to get out some sort of honorable offer of protection and the effort was going to hurt him if she didn't cut him off. "I have some people I can call, if I have a problem." She waved her cell phone at him and Sam winced, he had been a little obvious and he couldn't deny that he was worried about her being able to handle herself.

"Like a club?"

"More like an organization, anyway, they've got people everywhere."

"But you work alone."

"Most of the time, I like it that way." Not that she was defensive about being alone, it was just that she didn't like being judged for it.

Sammy worried at his lower lip and then scribbled on a scrap of paper. He handed it over and kept his eye firmly fixed to the computer screen. "If you do need help, that's our number, we've got voicemail, so just use it, if you have a problem or whatever."

Faith looked down at the number and couldn't hold onto the grin. "Wow, do you give your number out to all the girls?"

"Shut up," Sammy muttered in a futile hope that she wouldn't run with this to make fun of him.

"Your set up needs work, but I can give you some pointers," she offered and wasn't surprised when Sammy, after an internal debate over whether she qualified as a lady, threw an onion ring at her.

Faith added to her tally of times Sammy had acted his age, ate the onion ring and threw an ice cube back at him.

When Dean woke up later and gave them funny looks for the ketchup and water stains, neither Sammy or Faith gave any of it away.

All she'd wanted to tell Sammy was that she wasn't someone who would cause them a problem later on and by putting herself in a position where he could be teased by her and retaliate, she'd done that. If she did happen to hear word of the brothers, she could cross their paths without worrying that Sammy was going to think she was stalking them for a bite.

As she shoved her one set of extra clothes into a plastic bag, she didn't have to look around the room to know that she'd packed everything, and that her movements had an audience. She had always possessed the ability to make people look. More than that, once they saw her it was all about wanting what they really weren't equipped to deal with. So she knew the feeling of being watched and imagined that she could even tell what, besides the obvious, was being weighed.

"You need to be somewhere?" It was painful to hear the telling gap between words. "With the Slaying?" Dean asked, as if he hadn't been sitting right behind her while she packed.

"Need to get moving, there's monsters to kill, you know how it goes."

"Right."

Dean was good at talking, but after a couple of days spent in his company, it was obvious that he didn't talk about much that he didn't want to. At least not until he was pinned down and it was too late to get away. This wasn't one of those times, but Faith wasn't one to let hints sneak by, and she turned to face him, fingers hooked in her belt loop, rocking from side to side. It wasn't like she'd ever really gotten credit for saying the right thing either.

"You have a place to crash?" Faith couldn't tell if Dean was pulling out sentences like fortunes and just hoping they fit, or if he was honestly curious.

"Nah, I've been on my own lately." It was odd talking to Dean and realizing that he normally filled up the quiet moments. Instead, there were pauses in place of transition statements and silence seemed a conversation in and of itself. Faith was used to people trying to make up for what she didn't feel like saying.

"So, it was good to run into you." B would have laughed herself into a strained muscle to watch Faith fidget and try to find her way around to asking if they would be in the same time zone again. She came across the number Sammy had given her and seized it. "Sammy gave me your number, kind of sweet, so I'll holler if I need some help."

"Sammy?" Dean laughed. "Don't let him hear you call him that, it's Sam."

"Sammy fits," Faith protested, and grinned back.

"Alright." Dean looked her in the eye and Faith didn't wait to see him try and take the hard way to using words when she was much more comfortable acting for both of them. She stepped close, watching Dean's pupils expand, and she let his breath hit her mouth before she moved the last couple inches and kissed him solidly on the mouth.

When she stepped back, Dean's tongue traced his lower lip, and Faith abandoned the fleeting idea of propriety and took another kiss.

Sammy, Sam came into the room just as Dean had pulled Faith onto his lap, and the younger Winchester let out a yelp. "You are not having sex on my bed, so get off him and stop." He sounded like he was trying not to lecture them and was only barely keeping it together.

Faith slid off Dean's lap as slowly as possibly, knowing that two sets of eyes were on her and gave Dean another lingering kiss as she stood up.

Dean leaned back on his elbows, shirt pushed up far enough to expose his stomach and he didn't try to put himself in order as she aimed a broad grin at Faith.

"Take to you later," he said confidently, and Faith returned the smile.

"If I don't hear from you first," she said.

As she grabbed her bag and walked by Sam, she reached up and tugged on his shaggy mop. "See you, Sammy."

"It's Sam," he said, long suffering and Faith winked at him.

They didn't stand at the door and wave, but Faith didn't need more of what she'd already gotten. She had a phone number in her pocket, a full bag of Slaying gear, and her lip tingled where Dean had bit it.

Throwing a leg over her bike, Faith let herself glance back once at the motel and then turned herself to the curving line of road stretching off into tomorrow.


End file.
